The President's Shadow

by Brad Meltzer

  82

  Twenty-nine years ago

  Devil’s Island

  Alby had traded a week’s worth of latrine cleanup. It was worth it.

  “Just keep an eye out,” Timothy said at the far end of the corridor, flashlight clamped by his armpit.

  Alby nodded, wiping his forehead. He was sweating hard—more than usual—even though the night wasn’t a terrible one. He wasn’t stupid. Every week, Dr. Moorcraft gave the Plankholders new shots and new medicine.

  Rechecking the dark hallway, Alby shooed away a mosquito that wasn’t even there. It was well past two in the morning; most of the Plankholders were exhausted and asleep.

  Timothy was down on one knee, jabbing an unbent paper clip into the lock on the wooden door. Alby had learned of Timothy’s skills during their first week on the island, when he caught Timothy using a similar technique to swipe a box of peanut M&M’s from the cafeteria’s locked food closet.

  “And as the great Houdini used to say…I just opened the stupid thing,” Timothy announced, twisting the knob and shoving the door open.

  “Don’t forget—you promised you’d keep lookout,” Alby said as Timothy got up to leave.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “This concerns you too. You should—”

  “Alby, whatever you’re about to say, I don’t care. You know I don’t like you. And I don’t want to help you. But I don’t like cleaning diarrhea even more.”

  The pain in Alby’s neck knotted tighter than ever. He wanted to hit Timothy…wanted to jam his thumbs in his Adam’s apple and press down as hard as he could. Instead, Alby stood there. “Five minutes,” he pleaded. “Just give me that.”

  “Five. That’s it,” Timothy warned, rolling his eyes.

  “If someone comes, knock.” Grabbing the flashlight, Alby darted into the narrow brick room, which smelled like an old bookstore. Wasn’t hard to see why. The back wall was covered with new metal shelves that were stacked with textbooks, all of them medicine-related: Cobb’s Anatomy. Developmental Biology. Abnormal Psychology. Criminal Psychology. The Science of Human Behavior.

  Another wall had metal lockers that were filled with old faded boxes marked Survival Supplies Furnished by Office of Civil Defense. Nuclear war leftovers from the late sixties. But all Alby was focused on was the brick wall on his right, which held a military-issue metal desk that sat between two gray file cabinets.

  Dr. Moorcraft’s private office. Racing for the top drawer, Alby yanked it open as the flashlight sprayed shadows across the room.

  To Alby’s surprise, the first…second…all three drawers were empty. Tucking the flashlight under his opposite arm, he ran to the other cabinet. Jackpot. A long row of hanging files swayed forward and back, each one marked with a typewritten label. He immediately started fingerwalking through them:

  Bendis, Brian…DeConnick, Matthew…the file for Julian Marlin was missing, but the others were there: Hadrian, Nicholas…Lusk, Timothy…and at the very back: White, Albert.

  Alby reached for his file, but before he could grab it, he spotted another file folder just behind it. Flight 808, the label read.

  808? That was Alby’s flight, the flight that had crashed. Why would they—?

  Without even thinking, Alby plucked the file, flipping it open and spreading it on the nearby desk. Inside were copies of airline tickets. Dozens of them, an inch thick, bound by a binder clip. All Flight 808.

  Just behind that were fifty or so separate sheets of paper, each with names, addresses, and personal details, along with a square passport photo stapled in the corner. Alby flipped through the photos. He didn’t recognize anyone, not until—

  Her. He knew her. The woman with the pointy face and equally pointy breasts. She was the gate agent who’d given them the upgrade. According to the file, her name was Rachel Dagen. From Holland, Michigan. Alby flipped through the next few pages.

  He saw the elderly woman who’d sat diagonally behind them. And the elderly man. The woman was from Chicago. The man from Manalapan, New Jersey. Under Marital Status, both were listed as Single.

  A bead of sweat hit free fall as it left Alby’s nose and splattered, slowly sinking into the page. The knot tightened in the back of his neck. It didn’t make sense. Alby closed his eyes, still picturing the crash of the plane…the elderly woman clutching her husband’s shoulders. She had ice blue eyes and bone-colored skin. No question, they were wearing wedding bands.

  More confused than ever, Alby scanned the top of the page. It was the same on all of them: three words in a delicate, swirly cursive:

  Avalon Talent Agency

  Alby pointed the flashlight closer, just to make sure he was reading it right. Talent agency? Why would the army need actors?

  83

  Today

  Y’all set on water?” Pilot Jamie asks.

  “Got plenty,” Mina says, motioning to my backpack as we both eye the parking lot. Still clear.

  “We should really go,” I add, heading for the door and trying to nudge him outside, toward the runway. The last thing we need is him asking more questions.

  “So where you guys from again?”

  “Arizona,” Mina says.

  “Ohio,” I say simultaneously.

  Pilot Jamie stares at us a second too long. “You still paying me all that cash?”

  “Yeah.”

  A smile takes his face. “Then you’re the birthday boy and birthday girl. Let’s start the party.” Grabbing his camouflaged military knapsack, he ducks below the counter and heads for the door. His feet are still bare.

  “Up, up, and away. Runway’s to the far right,” he explains.

  “Kokomo” starts playing as I tug the door open. But as we step out onto the porch—

  “Beecher…?” a female voice calls out. She’s wearing a brown wig, but I know that voice. I’ve known it since she first kissed me in junior high.

  Clementine.

  Her cheek is swollen and scabbed. She’s cradling…is that a cat? Just behind her is Marshall, a homemade sling holding his arm in place. She looks bad. He looks worse.

  “I take it these are friends of yours?” Pilot Jamie asks. No one answers. “So…uh…I have an idea,” he adds. “Why don’t I go get the plane ready?”

  84

  You should’ve gone to the hospital,” I say to Marshall, pointing to the white gauze covering the wound in his shoulder. “Let me see it.”

  He shakes his head. He doesn’t like showing weakness. Glancing around, he gives a withering scrutiny to the seaplane office. Especially Mina. Why’s she here? he asks with a glance.

  “I changed my mind. She’s okay,” I reassure him.

  “Wait. Time out,” Clementine says, still lost. “How did you—?” She cuts herself off, turning to me. “How’d you know what happened to Marshall’s arm? And who’s she?” she asks, pointing to Mina.

  “We should go,” I say to Marshall, motioning toward the runway on our right. “We’re running out of—”

  “No. Stop talking,” Clementine interrupts, sounding like she’s lisping. She looks at me, then back at Marshall. “You sneaky little turds.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Marshall warns.

  “You told Beecher we were coming…and that my dad— You called from the train and plotted this little meet-up together. You’ve been working with each other this whole time.”

  “That true?” Mina asks.

  Does she really think I’d come all this way without knowing what I’d be getting? I shoot a grin at Marshall. I know he won’t grin back. But what catches my attention is that he’s not looking at me. He’s focused on Clementine, fixated on her. I shouldn’t be surprised.

  The two of them exchange another glance. As always, the stiffness of his skin makes him hard to read, but I know an apology when I see one.

  “You’re Nico’s daughter,” Mina blurts.

  “Who’re you?” Clementine challenges.

  “I’m with the Secret
Service, who would love to know where your father is,” Mina says, shoving right back. She towers over Clementine and steps close enough so Clementine feels it.

  A decade ago, this is where Clementine would’ve taken off her earrings and started throwing punches. Today, she just stands there. “Is she serious?” Clementine asks me.

  I put a hand on Mina’s shoulder, pulling her back and whispering into her ear. “She wants the same answers we do. She knows where the files are. She told Marshall—they’re still on the island, along with something else too.”

  Mina glares back at me, her eyes on fire. If she wants to report us, here’s her chance. For a moment, no one moves.

  “The plane’s waiting. We should go,” Mina says, though I see it on her face. We’re not done with this conversation. And she’s definitely not done with Clementine.

  Across from me, Clementine shoots me a look, though what she’s really rolling her eyes at is my hand on Mina’s shoulder.

  I keep my hand where it is and glare back at Clementine, then over to Marshall, who shoots me his own look, asking me to lay off Clementine. We know each other since kindergarten. With old friends, you can have an entire war without anyone muttering a word.

  “I guess this way everyone gets what they want, huh?” Clementine says to no one in particular. She doesn’t like being fooled. Neither do I, especially by her.

  “You and Marshall could’ve told me you planned to meet up. I still would’ve helped,” she growls at me. As she gets closer, I can see there’s something wrong with her mouth. Some of her teeth are gone.

  I glance over at Marshall. He told me what was on the island; he didn’t tell me how sick she was.

  Clementine stays locked on me, her mouth sagging open, her face softening.

  Don’t fall for it, I scold myself.

  Mina rolls her eyes too.

  It’s what Clementine always does, preying on my emotions. Only a fool would get suckered again. I’m done being that fool. But I’d be a liar if I said it was easy. Clementine was my first real crush. My first kiss. Every time she’s near, I can feel it on a chemical level. And if I’m being truly honest, I feel it even more when I see the way she’s glancing at Marshall.

  “My Lord, it’s like being around a divorced couple,” Mina says.

  Clementine hits her with a look that’ll leave a dent. “Beecher, you idiot—I’m on your side,” Clementine says. “I’ve always been on your side.”

  “You said the same thing the last time I saw you. Remember what happened then? You abandoned me so you could help your dad sneak away.”

  “He’s my father. You of all people should understand what that means! But to not trust me—”

  “Clemmi, if I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here right now!”

  She takes a half-step back, pulling her cat toward her chest. Even she can’t argue with that.

  “It’s safer that you didn’t know,” Marshall reassures her.

  “No. Don’t you see…? By being here…” Clementine cuts herself off, her anger giving way to panic. “This is bad.”

  I roll my eyes. It’s another trick.

  “Beecher, when was the last time you saw Tot?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “In the hospital. I know you go see him. Every day, like clockwork. Just answer the question: Did you see Tot last night?”

  Mina and I both nod. “Yeah, but what does that—?”

  “Ezra. Ezra’s been watching you there, at the hospital. He told me,” Clementine says. “He’s trying to crack the Ring, so if he saw you leave—”

  She doesn’t have to say it. I look back toward the empty parking lot. Wherever Ezra is, he can’t be far behind.

  “We need to go,” Marshall insists.

  Three minutes later, we’re out on the runway, climbing up on the wide pontoons of the blue-and-white seaplane.

  “I don’t mean to be a party pooper,” Pilot Jamie calls out as Clementine’s about to step on board, “but they don’t usually allow cats out there. Part of the island is a bird sanctuary and—”

  “The cat’s coming,” Clementine blurts, blowing past him.

  The tiny seaplane is freshly painted on the outside and sorely beaten up on the inside, smelling of sand and suntan lotion. On the yoke is a faded sticker for Castronovo Vineyards. As we strap ourselves in, Mina and I sit side by side in the first two saggy green-pleather seats. Clemmi and Marsh are side by side behind us. I swear, I feel Clementine’s stare scalding the back of both our heads.

  “This really is the worst double date I’ve ever been on,” Mina says, trying to lighten the mood.

  None of us respond.

  You okay? Mina asks with a glance. She knows the answer.

  “Seat belts on…though if we crash, ain’t gonna matter,” Pilot Jamie jokes, grabbing the yoke and flicking a dozen different switches on the console. With the turn of a key, the engine coughs to life. We put on the faded yellow headphones that dangle from the ceiling. Down on the floor, he follows a stray wire to a first-generation iPod and presses the middle button. Through our headphones, tropical steel drum music starts playing.

  “For five bucks I’ll play ‘Margaritaville.’ For twenty bucks I won’t play it,” Pilot Jamie teases, offering the only smile on board.

  “Can we just go?” I say.

  “At your service,” Pilot Jamie replies, pressing a worn silver foot pedal. As the plane starts shaking and picks up speed, I peer into the cockpit. He’s still barefoot. “Goodbye, Key West. Next stop, Devil’s Island.”

  85

  I’m guessing it’ll be about fifteen minutes before the coast guard spots us,” Pilot Jamie explains, tying ropes and securing the anchor for the bobbing, beached seaplane. “I can’t wait much longer than that.”

  “We’ll be quick,” I promise, hopping from the plane’s pontoon onto the damp sand. All around us, the water is clear and aquamarine, but there’s no time to appreciate it.

  Pilot Jamie watches as Mina, Clementine, and Marshall follow behind me, leaving a quick splash and deep muddy footprints as they land. Marshall’s moving slowly. Clementine and Mina keep trading dirty looks. Yet no one says a word until we’re halfway up the beach.

  “He knows who you are,” Mina eventually whispers at Clementine.

  “Who? The pilot?” Clementine asks, glancing back over her shoulder. “No he doesn’t.”

  “He does,” Marshall agrees.

  Running up the beach, I follow his gaze and check for myself. Pilot Jamie is still out on the pontoon, rope in hand. He looks our way, but not for long. He doesn’t get the rest of the money until we get home.

  “Your face has been on the news for months. He sees your wig. He’s not stupid,” Marshall says.

  Clementine shakes her head, cradling her cat like a baby. “If he knew who I was, he’d leave right now.”

  “Who says he won’t?” Mina asks.

  Considering the point, Clementine picks up speed, following a wooden pier toward the enormous brick fortress that rises up like a beachfront ghost town in front of us. Marshall’s just a few steps behind her, letting her lead the way. Like I told Mina, Clementine knows where she’s going.

  I try to tell myself that’s a good thing, but the closer we get to the fort, the more I feel that familiar bite in my stomach. I didn’t make this trip just for some old files and paperwork. I made it to find the other person I know is on this island. The one person who was here with my father, and who has all the real answers.

  I reach out for Mina’s hand, though it doesn’t bring the calm I was hoping for. I look around for signs of life. The beach is a mess of seaweed and broken branches. Whenever the hurricane hit, it hit hard. Down on the ground, past an overturned trash can, a cracked brown-and-white sign announces:

  Fort Jefferson

  Dry Tortugas National Park

  Mina squeezes my hand. This is it: the place that was on the flattened penny…the place that was clutched by the severe
d arm in the Rose Garden…the home base for the Plankholders…and if I’m right, the one place that has the information about how my father really died all those years ago.

  You ready? Marshall asks with a glance.

  I don’t say a word. He knows what this means to me. And I know what this means to him.

  The wooden pier takes us across a seventy-foot-wide moat and ends under a shaded brick archway, where a tall black metal gate serves as the fort’s official entrance. A No Trespassing sign says we’re not getting in.

  “Gate’s open,” Clementine says, sidestepping through it. On the ground is the metal chain that held it shut, along with an industrial padlock that’s sliced clean across the shackle. Whoever opened it has at least a pair of bolt cutters.

  Marshall pats his waist, letting us know he’s still got his gun. From the look on Mina’s face, she’s wishing she’d brought her own.

  As we follow Marshall through the archway, the only sound is the steady rhythm of the ocean waves behind us. But I can’t shake the feeling someone’s watching all our moves.

  “Which way?” Marshall asks as Clementine glances around the central courtyard, struggling to get her bearings. Like the beach out front, the whole courtyard is a dilapidated wreck. The grass is dying, sand and dead leaves are everywhere, and nearly every palm tree is bent sideways, bowing to the hurricane.

  “Where’d he say he’d meet you?” I ask her.

  “Just gimme a second,” she says, still pissed that Marshall called me from the train—actually, before and during the train—and told me the rest. Like I said, I’m after more than just files.

  “I know he’s here,” I tell her. In the back of my head, I replay the President’s theory that Nico, for some reason, looks out for me and protects me. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here right now.

  Clementine reaches for her phone. She’s forgetting we’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s no signal on the island.

  “She’s lost,” Mina says.